So, I was planning on going to work on Thursday. I was. I made lunch (Farro and Roasted Butternut Squash, only I used quinoa); I picked an outfit (jeans and a sweater). I was prepared.
And then, well, the U.S. State Department called, and I told them I would move across the country to work for them instead.
I don't consider myself a thrill seeker (not a fan of heights, falling, 3-D movies, enclosed spaces, or creatures that dart or slither), but I think my friends and family would agree that the past ten days have been mostly fueled by some mixture of adrenaline, reckless hope, and generalized uncertainty. The entire process took one week, including accepting the offer around the time I was supposed to be heading off for my first day at the other job. It just happened, in a good way, the way where it's just so convenient you know it must be right. It's a really good job, a job writing in the English language about the English language--so very Jasper Fforde!--which is a little synechdochic representation of two of my favorite things. I keep thinking that it wouldn't be my life if something crazy and wonderful didn't just happen at the last second, and that I'm not sure I'd change that if I could. I like surprises (...don't quote me on that).
So that's how things are now: trying to picture myself a month from now and finding the image strangely blurry. I'm haunting Craigslist of Washington DC, debating the merits of pod storage vs. movers, exploring strategies for fending off crushing loneliness (a. convince friends to move, too; b. cram all of California into suitcase; c. acquire time-stopping device and teleportation skills), and looking forward to a new adventure. It's fun and stressful and I don't even really know what it means, probably, but I think I am ready to find out. I'm pretty sure it's the right thing.
See you on the East Coast.